


ni moi sans vous ni vous sans moi (neither me without you, nor you without me)

by fragileanimals



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 22:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10908936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragileanimals/pseuds/fragileanimals
Summary: Eventually, in the medical pod, exhaustion overcomes Fitz, and she feels the last vestiges of his restraint fall away. His hand goes slack in hers, the fullness his weight leaning into her. Jemma herself is wide awake, relief and anguish mixing in her chest in equal measure-- she couldn’t sleep if she wanted to.Instead, she pulls his head into her lap and waits for dawn.(Or, FitzSimmons recover from the Framework. Together.)





	ni moi sans vous ni vous sans moi (neither me without you, nor you without me)

**Author's Note:**

> am i playing fast and loose with the canon storyline with this because the finale comes out tuesday? yes. do i care? not really.
> 
> thanks to my girl anysa for beta-ing!!!

_(a man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river  
                    but then he’s still left  
with the river. a man takes his sadness and throws it away  
                                                                        but then he’s still left with his hands.)_

They sit hunched-up in the medical pod until their bodies ache. 

They sit in the pod until Jemma’s arm goes numb from gripping his shoulders, until Fitz’s back stiffens from curling in on himself so tightly; they sit until their eyes are red and sore and they have been purged of their tears, at least for now. And then they sit some more, because no physical discomfort could come close to the sorrow in their very souls.

Even after his tears have ceased, Fitz continues to choke on his breath as if he knows he doesn’t deserve it, like he’s fighting every one. It is a sound that cuts Jemma to the core. But at least she can hold him in her arms for the first time in an eternity. 

Eventually, exhaustion overcomes him, and she feels the last vestiges of his restraint fall away. His hand goes slack in hers, the fullness his weight leaning into her. She herself is wide awake, relief and anguish mixing in her chest in equal measure. She couldn’t sleep if she wanted to.

Instead, she pulls his head into her lap and waits for dawn.

 

_(you go to work the next day pretending nothing happened.  
your co-workers ask  
if everything's okay and you tell them  
you're just tired.  
and you're trying to smile. and they're trying to smile.)_

They stumble upstairs, stiff and bleary-eyed, into what is left of the base to find that Robbie Reyes has permanently rid them of the curse that is AIDA -- or Ophelia, or whatever name she has chosen. The point is: In the few hours they had spent on the medical cot, the Ghost Rider has excised their demon. 

The Russian had managed to slip away, but for now has presumably slunk back underground -- undersea, perhaps -- to regroup. He will most certainly be back, but that is a problem for another day. There is enough to do in rebuilding the base, rebuilding _themselves,_ to keep them busy for the time being.

In any case: They are free. Free of AIDA, free of Radcliffe. Free of the Russian. Free of the Framework and its horrors. And, if that hadn’t been good enough news, Elena had managed drag Mack back into the world by the skin of her teeth.

Jemma knows she should feel something. She should feel happy, or relieved, and if neither of those, then at least _better_. She doesn’t. All she can produce is a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes; Fitz can’t even manage that, he just turns and walks back to their room proper, shuts the door behind him.

 

_(we have not touched the stars,  
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back  
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,  
not from the absence of violence, but despite  
the abundance of it.)_

“I’m just like Ward,” he tells her, later, as they lie facing each other on the bedspread. His voice is so quiet she has to strain to hear it.

If it had wounded her to hear those words over the video monitor, it shatters her completely to hear it in person. She almost can’t bear to see the way his mouth tightens, his eyes unable to hold hers.

Instinctively, she reaches for him, but he pulls back, guilty. Suddenly, the few inches between them feels insurmountable. 

“You’re not like him, Fitz,” she says, propping herself up on one elbow. “You’re not anything like him. You can’t believe that.”

“I am,” he whispers, terribly earnest, trying to make her understand. His eyes are downcast, unable to meet hers. “I am like him. Agnes, she was real. She was a real person. And I killed her. Shot her through the heart.” He motions to his own chest. “Mace, too. I ordered the strike that killed him.”

Jemma bites her lip. This isn’t news to her, but, for Fitz’ sake, she had hoped the reports had been wrong. That he hadn’t personally called for the attack on the compound, that it had been someone else, someone beneath him. Technically still on his authority, but sparing him from direct responsibility.

She is a little surprised at the depth of the sorrow she feels at the reminder of Mace’s death. Whatever their disagreements, whatever his faults, whatever her feelings about his replacement of Coulson, Jeffrey Mace had been a good director. At the very least, he had been a good-hearted one.

It takes her a moment to collect her thoughts. Finally, she says, “They may have been real, but the Framework… The Framework was a manipulation, of your character, your values. Of your good heart,” she says, emphasizing the words. 

He shakes his head. “Jemma--”

“It manipulated all of us,” she says. “Not just you. May worked for HYDRA, as did Daisy. You were sleepwalking in a nightmare. We all were.” She clasps his hands. “But now you’re awake. You came back. And, I can’t speak for Angela, but, Director Mace…” She trails off. “I can’t imagine he’d want you to blame yourself. He knew you weren’t _you_.”

“It’s still my fault,” he says, eyes bright with unshed tears. “All of it. Every single person that was hurt, or died-- That’s on me. I did those things. I _wanted_ to.”

She brings their twined fingers to her lips. “Look at me,” she says, firmly. He does, if reluctantly. “This was Radcliffe’s doing, not yours. You worked with him because you wanted to help people. That’s who you are. You just-- got tangled up in his mess.”

“I shot you,” he shoots back, but there’s no venom in it, only weariness. “I tortured Daisy. _I_ did. Not someone else. Me.”

“I don’t care,” she bursts out, equally earnest. “Fitz, I don’t care. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t you. I know that, and Daisy does, too. I promise.”

“It felt real,” he says, very softly.

“Just because something feels real,” she says, slowly, “doesn’t mean that it is.” She taps his calf with her foot, giving him a small smile. “See? No bullet. I’m fine.”

He just looks at her, then, terribly sad. And she can tell he doesn’t believe her, wants to argue, even. But he doesn’t. He just tips his head into her chest, with a great sigh.

“I’m never going to stop trying to make up for this to you,” is all he says. “To all of you.”

“I know,” she says, softly, into his hair. Closing her eyes. “I know.”

 

_(a happy ending?  
sure enough — hello darling, welcome home.  
i’ll call you darling, hold you tight. we are  
not traitors but the lights go out.)_

“I think we should go home,” she says, all in a rush. They're sitting at the rickety folding table that's been set up in the ruins of the base kitchen; her hands are clutched around a steaming mug, as yet gone untouched.

Fitz’ head darts up. His eyes are still red, but less puffy. Right now, they're also confused. “Aren't we already?” he asks. 

“No,” she says. “Not a S.H.I.E.L.D. base. I mean _home_ -home.”

“Oh,” is all he says.

She hasn’t been back to Sheffield in a little over two years, not since she’d stopped in for a few days’ rest before going undercover at HYDRA; she knows it’s been even longer since Fitz has been to Glasgow. She gets by mostly by telling herself she doesn’t miss it, that the exchange had been worth it, but sometimes she wonders if that’s quite true. Sometimes she misses the city terribly, the glow of its metropolitan lights, the buildings all crushed together.

“It’ll be good for us to take a few weeks,” she says. “I can visit my parents, and you can see your mum--”

That’s apparently the wrong thing to say, because he drops his head into his hands, with a small groan. “Ah. I don’t think I can see her,” he says, voice slightly muffled. “Mum. I don’t think I can do it.” 

“Well, then, we’ll take our time.” she says, gently. She takes his hands, pulling them away from his face. “Rent a place near the water, or in the hills, maybe. Just us. After all,” she says, with a little smile, “we’ve got to have at least four years’ worth of vacation days stored up, right?”

His own lips twitch, a weak reflection of hers. “I wasn’t aware that those rolled over from year to year.”

“Considering the circumstances,” she says, lightly, “I’m sure Coulson will be willing to make an exception.” She pauses. “So, what do you say?”

They haven’t been anywhere just the two of them since their stolen night in Bucharest, and even that hadn’t technically counted as vacation, because they had been on a mission. They haven’t been anywhere together; she wants it more badly than she cares to admit. But she keeps her expression carefully neutral, so as not to pressure him.

He considers it for a moment. “Guess it couldn’t hurt,” he says.

 

_(i came to tell you, we’ll swim in the water, we’ll  
swim like something sparkling underneath  
the waves. our bodies shivering, and the sound  
of our breathing, and the shore so far away.)_

They’re in the air less than 24 hours later. Though Davis had offered to fly them, Jemma had insisted they take a commercial flight. “If we’re going to go on vacation,” she had said, firmly, “we’re going to do it right.”

Secretly, she had worried that to take a S.H.I.E.L.D. plane would be tempting fate. She could see it, being halfway across the ocean only to be called back to base. Last-minute missions were always a possibility.

So, here they are, crossing the Atlantic on a public flight for the first time in years. The sea looks so very different from above, she thinks, smoother, softer. What must be waves several feet tall are barely distinguishable from one another at this height; the bright sun glints off of them, throwing light into her eyes. 

Beside her, Fitz is quiet. Going by appearance alone, with his eyes shut like this, he might be sleeping, except that his breathing is a bit too shallow, too uneven. Jemma has long known the rhythm of his breaths, since before they had ever shared a bed. Sometimes it feels like she knows him better than she knows herself, she thinks, leaning her head into his shoulder.

After so many years living out of an airplane, the low background rumble of the engines is a comfort. If she closes her eyes, she can almost picture it-- everyone sitting around the Bus’ common room, back when they were young and bright-eyed, undamaged and unbetrayed.

But it does no good to dwell on such things, so she lets the thought pass. Her eyes grow heavy. Soon, they’ll land, and she’ll be home; she’ll be in the country of her birth, with all its gloomy weather and rain that Fitz loves so much. 

Soon, but not yet. For now, she closes her eyes once more and tries to sleep.

 

_(i woke up in the morning and i didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything,  
couldn’t do it anyway,  
just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made  
any sense, anything.)_

The first night in the rental, Jemma wakes up in a cold sweat, tangled in sheets. Her mouth is dry, heart pounding so hard and fast it makes her light-headed. Instinctively, she grasps for the phone which always sits in precisely the same spot on her bedside table, but her fingers find only empty space.

Then, in the darkness beside her, something shifts. It’s too dark to see, and she jerks back in momentary terror. A groggy voice says, “Jemma?” and then she remembers, Fitz.

Fitz, whom she has watched struggle under her knife for what feels like the thousandth time tonight.

When she doesn’t respond, “Jemma?” he asks again. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she manages, shakily. The darkness is so complete that there is no difference between opening and closing her eyes. “I’m fine.”

But the bedside lamp comes on, anyway -- the table’s on the opposite side, naturally -- illuminating Fitz’ profile, his curls mussed with sleep. His eyes, however, are bright with concern. “A nightmare?” he asks, very softly, so as not to spook her.

She can’t tell him. She has to tell him. 

“I had to kill you,” she says, all in a rush.

“What?” he says. “In your dream?”

“No,” she says. Her heart is thumping so loudly she can barely hear her own voice over it. “Well, yes, but also, I-- Your replacement.”

Horror dawns on his face. “Replacement… As in, my robot replacement?” It almost sounds as though it should be a joke, but there’s no trace of humor in his voice.

She nods. “He-- It attacked me. But it had your face. It had your voice, your mannerisms--” She shudders, remembering how it had pleaded with her. "I had to stab you-- It-- To death.”

Her memories of the event are crystalline, fragile. She remembers its fearsome blankness when it had realized it couldn’t fool her, the lack of expression as it jammed the knife high in her leg. She will always bear that scar, on her skin and in her heart. Just as she will bear the scar of having to watch the light fade from his eyes, because of her doing. Even if it wasn’t him.

Fitz gapes at her, jaw hanging open. “I had no idea,” he says, incredulous. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She gathers in a long breath, holds it like May taught her. After the count, she lets it out slowly.

"I didn't think you needed something else on your plate," she says, willing her voice not to tremble. With her forefinger, she traces circles into the bedspread. "Besides, I'm fine. I survived."

His brow creases in concern. “Do you really expect me to believe that?” he asks, gently. He shifts closer, so that their shoulders brush. "I mean, I know if I-- If I'd had to kill you, even if I knew you were an LMD--" He swallows. "I'd be a mess."

She shrugs, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t know. After everything else that happened, it just seemed… unimportant.” Her face falls. "But, oh, Fitz, it was awful." She swipes at her eyes, angry when they start to fill. “Looking at it was just like looking at you. It had your way of walking, of talking. It even had your memories--” She breaks off.

We can get married, grow old together. I’ve thought about it, but I was afraid to bring it up.

She stifles a bitter laugh, remembering what she had said in response. I’ll tell Fitz when I see him. How badly she wants to tell him her answer right now, to grab him and make him understand just how much she wants to grow old with him. But it is not yet the right time. They are both much too raw to begin something so joyful. Perhaps, someday...

“I’m sorry,” Fitz says, bringing her back to the present.

She frowns at him. “For what?” Surely he doesn’t also blame himself for what his LMD had done.

He gestures vaguely. “For all of this. The Framework, everything. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, that I couldn’t keep you safe. From my... robot self.” He shakes his head. “That still sounds odd, even to me.”

Despite herself, she cracks a smile. “It does sound a bit mad, now that you mention it.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” he says. 

She flops back on the bed, eyes on the ceiling. She wishes its winding cracks and paint splatters could give her even the smallest hint about what lies ahead, but they are silent. “Oh, Fitz,” she sighs. “Will we ever be able to have a normal life? Or are we doomed to fight giant blue aliens and humanoid robots until we die?” The last bit comes out more exasperated than she had anticipated.

He lies back too. He’s quiet for a moment, then, “And here I was,” he says, lightly, “thinking you didn’t believe in curses.”

She turns toward him, so he can see her roll her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

She half-expects him to attempt to rile her up, like old times. But he simply nods, rustling the bedsheets. “I do,” he says. “And we will, I promise.”

She finds that she believes it.

 

_(makes a cathedral, him pressing against  
me, his lips at my neck, and yes, i do believe  
his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me  
like stars.)_

The days pass, and, as many positive steps forward Fitz has taken, he remains painfully reticent to touch her. 

On several occasions, Jemma has kissed his lips, opened her mouth to indicate how badly she wants, only to have him gently stop her, pull back and away. She is growing frustrated of it, tired.

She is frustrated, because the problem is not that he doesn’t want her, too. She would have understood that far better, if he had needed time to get his head straight, to erase his false history with Ophelia before becoming intimate again.

(The thought of that _thing_ with her hands on him ignites an impossible fury deep in her gut, makes her wish it had been she who had taken AIDA apart piece by piece. She has never had the opportunity to be truly jealous over Fitz before-- he’s only ever been hers.) 

But, no, his body is as clear as ever; she can read his desire plainly. What stops him is his guilt. 

It isn’t that they don’t touch at all. Jemma can hardly stand to be in the same room with him without reaching out, much less brush past him, or eat a meal without the physical reassurance of her fingers in his or her hand on his pulse. He simply won’t initiate it.

It’s penance, she thinks. He feels that he doesn’t deserve to touch her-- he who is in truth the only one who ever has. The thought does not sit well with her, but every time she tries to begin a conversation, same result: The gentle pull-away.

So she waits up for him one night, shoulders against the headboard, the only light from the small sliver of moon which peers in the window and casts long stripes on the floor.

After a while, he slips into the room, trying to make as little noise as possible. He crosses to the bed, eyes on the soft glow of his phone. It’s only after he places it facedown on the bedside table that he notices she doesn’t sleep.

“Oh,” he says. “You’re awake.”

She nods. “Yeah.”

He slides in next to her, close but not too close. His eyes drift over her before he can stop himself, over her bare skin, luminescent, the soft silk of her nightshirt catching the silvery moonlight.

In one fluid motion, she straddles his lap, bracketing his hips with her thighs. She thinks they both stop breathing for a moment.

He blinks at her, surprised. Surprised and something else; she shifts slightly in his lap and feels him respond. Still, he doesn't touch her, doesn't wrap his arms around her the way he would before.

“Jemma?” His voice is breathless, questioning. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, she lowers her open mouth to his jaw.

“You can touch,” she says, then. She moves lower, to the place below his ear that he likes. She says it into his skin. “Fitz, you can touch me.”

His breath stumbles. The thin strap slips from her shoulder, and she pulls back, then, and is gratified to see him struggling to keep his glazed eyes on her face. His body trembles with the effort. 

“Jem,” he says. His hands hover centimeters from her sides. She can feel the heat of them through the fabric. “I--”

“You’re _allowed_ ,” she interrupts, leaning her forehead into his. Then, “I want you to. Please.”

She hears more than sees it when his resolve crumbles; he groans, tips his head forward so their mouths collide.

Finally, finally his arms are around her, holding on tightly, as if he could pull her inside his own chest. He slides down the bed, holds her over him like something fit for worship. His own kisses fall over her, desperate and imprecise, and she can't help the smile that blooms on her face.

Her entire body thrums, electric. She's a live wire, run through with want. And she can feel it in him, too, his heart beating under her palm.

He sighs onto her mouth when she threads her fingers through his hair, grips her even closer. The friction is enough to make her shiver. God, she's missed this. More than that, she's missed _him_ , his simple touches and selfless affection. He's been holding back, but no more. No more.

The last coherent thought she manages is: At the moment, it all feels very much like hope.

 

_(we laugh  
and it pits the world against us, we laugh,   
and we’ve got nothing left to lose, and our hearts   
turn red.)_

The first time she hears him laugh, really laugh, is a few weeks into their vacation. It’s not over anything important-- she just does something uncharacteristically dumb and clumsy, drops a freshly-washed plate on the floor, causing it to shatter.

She groans, slapping down the damp towel on the counter with more force than necessary. She turns around at the sound of his laugh. “What?”

“Do you remember that time, at the Academy,” he says, handing her the dustpan, “we had just finished a three-week lab, and I dropped it?”

Her hands still, and her lips twitch. “You mean the time I had to go to the lab professor and beg him to allow us to re-do before final grades were in?”

“That’s the one,” he says, sheepish.

Her grin widens. “How could I forget?” she says, looking up at him. “I was so angry with you.”

“You made me stand outside the flat and apologize through the door, remember?” he says, but he's smiling, too. “It was December.”

A helpless laugh bubbles up in her chest, free hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, God,” she gasps, “I did. I was so mad. And you didn't even drop it on the floor-- it was inside the hood! It couldn't have fallen more than a few inches!” For the life of her, she hadn't understood how it happened then, and she doesn't understand now.

“Thought I was going get frostbite out there,” he says. Leaning against the counter, laughing at her, he looks more relaxed than he has in a long time. “And then, when you finally let me in, you didn't speak to me for the rest of the day.”

A sudden image comes to her: Fitz standing outside in the cold, repentant, but growing more irritated by the minute. 

She laughs harder. It's not even that funny, but he starts laughing because she's laughing, and soon enough they're both doubled over, sides aching. Laughing over nothing, laughing just because they can, leaning on one another for support. For once, Jemma has tears streaming from her eyes that have nothing to do with sadness.

“Well-- I suppose that was a stupid lab, anyway,” she says, when she finally catches her breath. “Child's play, really.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Right. Child’s play.”

Her hand is on his forearm, their faces close. It feels so very much like them that before she can stop herself, she leans up on her tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. No particular reason, just because.

When his face breaks into a smile, it’s like watching the sun come out from behind clouds. She smiles back so broadly her cheeks ache.

 

_(dear forgiveness, i saved a plate for you.  
quit milling around the yard and come inside.)_

After that, healing seems comes in leaps and bounds. Some days are better than others, surely. 

Some days it feels like all they do is laugh, lay out in the sun or climb in the hills, their faces to the sun. Some days it almost feels like before-- Before the Framework, before S.H.I.E.L.D., even. Other days, she still wakes up screaming, feeling the cold barrel of his gun at the crown of her head. Other days, he can’t get out of bed for the guilt.

It wouldn’t be healing if it weren’t a process, she reminds herself, and him as well, on those days. It is as much a physical process as psychological: In order to close a wound, the skin must first scab over, ugly and tough, so that there is something to fall away when the mending is done. 

As scientists, they know the value of quantifiable data. So they begin to mark the days as they pass, on a small calendar Jemma hangs up with tape over the kitchen sink. Good days are given a tick mark at their end. Bad days, they do not mark at all. 

It takes time to achieve balance-- but, eventually, the number of good days begin to outnumber the bad. 

And Jemma’s more than willing to call that a victory.

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like you all should know that the lab story was a true story from orgo ii this year. we literally spent three weeks on this one dumb multistep lab and then this one guy threw away his group's product before they could do anything with it??? it was so bad. i cry every tiem
> 
> anyway, thanks so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed this. as always, commentary and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, if you can spare the time. ♥ also, all poetry excerpts are from various richard siken works because rsike is the man.


End file.
